


The Return to the King

by half_of_a_halfling



Series: Pillow Talk [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-coital cuddling, Talking about serious stuff, mentions of wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2842232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/half_of_a_halfling/pseuds/half_of_a_halfling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to Lines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Seven months had gone by since Thorin had last seen Thranduil and six months since the invitations had begun to arrive. Every ten days a messenger from the Woodland Realm would announce himself at the borders of Erebor and request the presence of Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, on behalf of the Elvenking.

 

Thorin gave his word each time – that he would visit by the end of the month, and then by the end of the season and then before the passing of the year. But he didn’t leave the mountain. He planned for it, of course. Made arrangements for his departure, left his eldest nephew in charge of his daily duties. He even had belongings packed into bags on several occasions.

 

But despite all this, he still didn’t leave the mountain.

 

He’d find an excuse or sometimes simply changed his mind and would unpack the bags and alert his advisors and Fíli. And another few days would pass and a messenger would call again for him.

 

It wasn’t that Thorin didn’t want to see Thranduil. Nothing could be further from the truth. He longed to see him. He spent entire nights awake, wishing that the Elf hadn’t left all those months earlier.

 

Thranduil had only stayed for one night before departing back for his home, though Thorin was under the impression that he would be staying longer. But he’d left almost at the first light of dawn, murmuring his goodbyes to the Dwarf as he’d first blinked awake, confused and upset that he was leaving.

 

As disappointed as he was that their tryst had ended much sooner than he’d anticipated, that wasn’t why he was reluctant to visit. His advisors assumed that he’d had a change of heart in regard to the Elvenking while his friends adopted the theory that Thorin was trying to punish him for returning to his kingdom so quickly.

 

The latter was more likely, but it still wasn’t the true reason. In reality it had very little to do with Thranduil at all.

 

The ten days were up and, once again, the messenger arrived on horseback at Erebor, announcing, as she had for the six months prior, that the Elvenking requested a visit from him. Soon.

 

Thorin swore that he would oblige and the messenger gave a tight smile and a single nod, turning and departing again for Mirkwood.

Six days passed before he began arrangements anew for a visit to Thranduil. He went through all the usual motions of discussions and plans and packing. And the advisors raised eyebrows as he assured them that he would not change his mind this time and his friends exchanged covert looks and nudges, albeit without too much disrespect meant, as he told them that they would not see him for a fortnight or longer.

 

On the eighth day he saddled his pony and made all final checks that all was in order. Consulted with his advisors one last time (though truth be known it was three last times) and finally on the ninth day he rode out, west, to the border.

 

This was of no surprise to anyone. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t ridden out towards Mirkwood before only to turn back at the eleventh hour and give next to no reason for his return.

 

But this time he’d assured, not just his kith and kin, but himself, that he would pass into the Woodland Realm by nightfall and keep his promise.

 

When he saw came to the thick trees that marked the Mirkwood border he considered turning back. He stopped his pony in its tracks, and looked back over his shoulder to the great mountain behind him. The home he’d worked so hard for. That he’d almost died for.

 

And he was leaving it.

 

Thorin couldn’t help a soft growl escaping him as he winced lightly and forced himself to look back to the trees, and pressed on until he’d passed into the dense forests of the lands of his lover. The path narrowed soon over the border and he was forced to abandon his steed on the edge of the trees, knowing the pony would most likely return to Erebor by itself.

 

He’d travelled less than a half mile along the path when he’d come across the guards, who he had no doubt tracked him from the border. Thorin wouldn’t have been surprised if Thranduil had already been made aware of his presence in Mirkwood.

 

The guards didn’t address the Dwarf King. They simply took the belongings he’d brought from him and lead him to Thranduil’s halls, ushering him down paths and over streams and once inside, through tunnels and galleries and passages until Thorin was almost suspicious that they were trying to ensure he would not find his way out of the fortress alone.

 

The Dwarf was left outside a room at the end of a particularly long and grand corridor as the Captain of the guard stepped inside and spoke to Thranduil for a moment in a tongue that Thorin hated to admit he was not well enough versed in to understand. There came a rustling of sheets and clothing from within the room and Thranduil quickly appeared at the door, his cloak wrapped close around him and tied at the front his only source of modesty.

 

Thorin could only give a weak smile as the tall Elf looked down at him in the doorway, mouth open in mild shock, blinking quickly at the sight. “You came.”

 

“I did.”

 

Thranduil looked to the guards and murmured something to dismiss them, and ushered Thorin into the room. “I didn’t expect you.” He admitted quietly, and went about straightening the bedclothes that had obviously just been thrown off.

 

Thorin cleared his throat softly and remained standing just inside the doorway. “You invited me. I said I would come.”

 

“Yes. Well. You said that more than a few times before.” He pointed out quietly, as he smoothed down the sheets and sat on the edge of the bed, with the same tight smile that the messenger had given him.

 

“I did.”

 

Thranduil turned his gaze away from him and pursed his lips. “After the first invitation I sat at the border and waited for you. I thought you’d want to see me after I had to leave so early the last time… After the fifth, I stopped waiting. My son didn’t think it was healthy.”

 

Thorin swallowed thickly and looked down to his feet. He’d known he would have to explain himself, but that didn’t make it any easier. “I’m sorry.” He whispered. “I didn’t mean to make you wait so long.”

 

He narrowed his eyes at that. “You did mean it though. You told me each time that you would visit and you hurt me each time.”

 

“It was always my intention to come and see you.” The Dwarf sighed. “I just kept getting side tra-”

 

“Don’t lie to me.”

 

“I wanted to see you.” Thorin corrected, which was much closer to the truth and took a step forward, which Thranduil twitched back in response to. “I really did. I’ve missed you since the day you left!”

 

The Elf blinked and shook his head lightly. “Is that why you didn’t come?” He asked quietly. “Because I left early? Were you angry?” He looked up with a guarded expression.

 

“Of course not.” He sighed, with a twitch of a smile. “I can’t say I didn’t wish you’d stayed longer but I… I assumed you had important things to be doing.” It was the truth. Although he hadn’t been given a reason for his lover’s sudden departure he’d had to suppose that it was of vital importance to take him from his bed when they still had so much to discuss in the morning.

 

Thranduil gave a slow nod but gave no further explanation and moved no further as Thorin came to his side and settled his hands atop his bare knees, where his gown opened at the front. “I truly have missed you.” The Dwarf murmurs and looks up into his face as Thranduil’s cheeks colour very lightly. The kind of blush that would have gone unnoticed had he not been so pale already.

 

“Then why not visit me?” He mumbled, twitching away from his touch and covering his knees with the sides of his gown.

 

“You could have come to Erebor.”

 

“I thought maybe you’d changed your mind about us.” Thranduil admitted quietly and pursed his lips again, nodding to the doorway. “Close the door please.” He whispered. He didn’t like to think of anyone eavesdropping in the corridor.  Thorin obliged but was quickly back by his side. Without another word, Thranduil reached out to lift the Dwarf King under his arms and up onto his bed beside him, much to his shock.

 

“Please don’t pick me up like that.” He murmured, once his voice came back to him. “I’m not a child, I don’t need lifting.”

 

Thranduil apologised quietly, but he had no regrets in doing it. He’d carried him before, when he’d found him on the battlefield. A mile and a half to the camps, with Thorin dying in his arms, his nephews fore and aft of him ensuring their safety as the Elvenking was unable to fight whilst holding him as he did.

 

The Dwarf looked around at the smoothed sheets they were sat upon. “Do you always stay in bed for so much of the day?”

 

“I took to my bed about two months ago.” Thranduil murmured eventually, with a furrowed brow. “My people thought that I had been poisoned.” He added after a moment, and he felt Thorin’s arms upon him almost as soon as he had said it. “I wasn’t. Don’t fear.”

 

Thorin shook his head, burying his face into the gown, wracked with guilt. “I know.” He mumbled. “It was because of me, wasn’t it?”

 

Thranduil smiled weakly, and put his own arm around Thorin’s back. “Vain little thing you are. Not everything involves you.” The Elf murmured, though it was very clear that his fatigue and weakness had been due to his absence.

 

He’d been almost heartbroken as the weeks went by and there was no sign of his lover at the border. For a while he’d thought maybe he might have wandered off the path and was lost in the forest but his guards constantly assured him that there was no way that that could be the case. He’d continued to send messengers but he no longer bothered to listen to the replies they brought back to the halls.

 

Then the anxious ideas began. He’d done something wrong. He’d driven Thorin to stay away.

 

It was how he’d acted in the night, he’d been sure of it. How coldly and angrily he’d reacted to Thorin’s curiosity and belittled his people. Refused his affections and efforts to compliment him. And then left at sunrise, murmuring his excuses to the Dwarf while he was still hazy from sleep.

 

Was it any wonder that Thorin had chosen to torture him with hope that he would soon be coming?

 

But maybe it went further than that, he considered on many of the restless nights of the previous months.

 

Maybe it was the scars. Maybe Thorin had thought about it after he had left. Reconsidered what he’d said in the night. It was already clear by now that Thorin’s word was by no means his bond. He’d thought about it and decided he no longer wanted someone who had to go so far as to enchant their skin due to the unending number of flaws.

 

But he was here now…surely that was a sign that he still cared.

 

With a small frown and trembling fingers, Thranduil pushed some of his lover’s hair from his face. He gave a low hum and leaned back against the bed, bringing Thorin down to lay beside him. “Why did you make me wait so long?”

 

With a thick swallow, he finally pulled his face away from the silver fabric. “I didn’t mean to make you wait.” Thorin mumbled. “I…I don’t like to leave my kingdom. I’ve been forced away from it for so much of my life…I nearly didn’t get to enjoy it at all. It just makes it difficult to walk away from it – even when I know I’ll be going back soon enough…”

 

It was Thranduil’s turn to clutch tightly at Thorin as he said that, relief washing over him as he felt this surely meant that he hadn’t changed his mind about his feelings. “If that was the case you should have told me.” He hushed, pressing his face to his shoulder. “There would be no pride lost. I’d have understood.”

 

Thorin shook his head, stiff in his tight embrace. “I ought to have been able to do it for you.” Came his sighed reply. “You’re my One. I’m supposed to walk to the end of the world for you.”

 

The Elf gave a soft laugh, though from the stern look on Thorin’s face as he shifted from his grip to look him in the eye, suggested that this was not the response he’d been hoping for. “I wouldn’t ask you to do that.” He muttered, with a soft furrowing of his brow. “Had the consequences been more important, I’m sure you’d have gone the distance, as it were.”

 

“Were they not important?” He mumbled, wrinkling his nose.

 

“Not…life threateningly important.”

 

Thorin huffed softly and his hand slinked up Thranduil’s trailing sleeve to stroke up his arm. “You took to your bed for months.” He pointed out. “Or do you need to be bleeding to death before I have to make an effort?” The regret of that thought was near instantaneous and he closed his eyes, nuzzling his arm to the sleeve.

 

“I knew you’d come.” Thranduil replied simply. “I didn’t think it would take as long as it would, but I knew you would.”

 

“Well I’m glad one of us has faith in me.”

 

Thranduil paused and pulled him further up the bed until he could have looked him in the eye, were the Dwarf’s not closed to him. “All these months I thought I’d been rejected.” He sighed. “As much as it must hurt your pride, I’d rather know you were weak than lose you.”

 

Thorin steeled his jaw and hid his face in the Elf’s shoulder. “I could never reject you.”

 

“You could. You might.”

 

“If I ever have to leave you, it won’t be through choice.” He insisted finally raising his head.

 

Thranduil closed his eyes now and gave a single nod, pressing forward to peck a kiss to the edge of his lips.

 

It still seemed odd to Thorin that he would ever allow himself to be in such a situation after all that had passed between the pair of them. Years, nay, decades of hate and bitter resentment on Thorin’s part and guilt and uncertainty upon Thranduil.

 

The Dwarf had long since learned to forgive Thranduil for his abandonment all those years before.

 

Perhaps not forgive, actually.

 

But once Erebor was reclaimed and he’d had time to sit alone in an empty hall of the deeper reaches of Erebor, where he knew the Elvenking would not disturb him with his constant questioning and _fretting_ over his wellbeing, he began to think about what help it would have been. There would have been no way of defeating Smaug even with the resources and army of Greenwood the Great. It would have been a fruitless exercise in death.

 

However that didn’t make it any easier for Thorin to recall the cold emotionless expression of Thranduil as he refused to help with the efforts to win back the mountain.

 

He was most definitely there after the battle though.

 

Thorin’s last moments of consciousness were hazy and mostly pieced together from what he was told by those around him at the time. But when he’d awoken two days later, Thranduil was by his side, laying hands on his wounds that would not heal without his intervention.

 

Recovery had been slow, but he’d been there too. When Thorin had lost half of his left foot to infection and screamed in pain through the night, the Elvenking had sat outside his tent even after being told by the Dwarves on no uncertain terms that his presence was neither required, nor appreciated.

 

And he’d slipped in again once the physicians from the Iron Hills had left Thorin to sleep and did his best to ensure that the infection spread no further than it already had. He’d left before the dawn and Thorin never knew he’d been there. Thranduil was sure that one of the Dwarves he recognised from his cells had seen him leave in the pink morning light but he never said anything. He was sure that it was the same Dwarf that had given him a covert smile when Thorin announced to his advisors that he intended to court the Elvenking. In any case, if the white bearded Dwarf had told Thorin, it had never been brought up with Thranduil at any later date.

 

He curled around Thorin’s body as best he could, and nuzzled into the crook of his neck. “I believe you.”

 

Thorin bowed his head in gratitude, letting his hand that wasn’t currently hidden within the Elvenking’s sleeve slip through the opening of his gown and settle on the flat of his stomach, until Thranduil tensed lightly and shook his head.

 

“Don’t.”

 

“It’s only me here.” Thorin huffed a small laugh and turned his head to kiss Thranduil’s cheek, only he moved at the last moment and his lips connected with the side of his nose instead.  


“Just wanted to check the door was closed.” The Elvenking murmured. He couldn’t trust himself to hear the approach of someone in the hallway outside his room.

 

He settling back against the sheets, rolling his eyes slightly at the small, smug grin that was spreading across Thorin’s face. “What do I have to thank for that look?”

 

Thorin gave a small shrug with one shoulder and closed his eyes, hand returning back to inside his robe, against his chest this time. “Were your guards acting upon your orders when they brought me to your bed?”

 

Thranduil rolled his eyes for a second time. “They didn’t bring you to my bed, they brought you to my chamber. You took yourself to my bed.”

 

“I seem to remember some lifting being involved.”

 

Thranduil turned onto his back and scowled. “You talk as if you don’t want to be here.”

 

“I’m only teasing.” The Dwarf whispered, moving over to climb atop him, settling on his chest.

 

The scowl remained. “You’re also crushing me.”

 

Thorin lifted himself slightly, supporting himself with a hand either side of Thranduil’s head, adjusting his position so he could stare down into the Elvenking’s face and stayed like this, simply watching as the edges of Thranduil’s lips twitched from a frown into a small smile that broadened as he finally met his eye again. “I have missed you.” Thorin muttered.

 

“Well whose fault is that?” Thranduil replied, though there was no trace of ill-will or spite in his voice.

 

Thorin let his eyes close at that and gave a small nod. “All mine.” He murmured, eyelids flicking open again as he felt the Elf’s slender fingers at his waist, untucking his tunic from his leggings.

 

“You’ve made me wait an awfully long while.” Thranduil mumbled, lifting his head up from the covers, to bury his forehead to the Dwarf’s throat as he tugged at the attire under his palms. “Take your boots off. You’re dirtying my sheets.” He added, glancing around at the marks being left on the bed, swatting at Thorin’s hip as his lover gave a low chuckle in response. “Don’t laugh at me, take them off!”

 

Thorin grinned and nodded, sat up, unfastening his boots and leaving them to the floor beside the bed. “Oh yes because we wouldn’t want to dirty your sheets.” He sighed, wetting his lips as he looked back to Thranduil, surprised to find that he’d almost shed his gown, leaving it simply draped over his shoulders.

 

That was a sight he’d missed.

 

The pale spread of his chest and stomach, like an alabaster map of some seldom-trod land leading to the trail of silvery hair down between his legs.

 

He would allow himself to linger at this point for as long as he could this evening.

 

Explore the minor ways his lover’s body had changed over the passing months with hand and mouth.

 

Run fingers through his hair and let Thranduil tangle those slight digits in his own dark tresses, and curl his lithe frame around the bulk of Thorin’s body.

 

He would reach down and set his palms against the insides of his Elven thighs, feeling him squirm against the touch and whisper his quiet requests against his beard.

 

But there was time enough for everything else later.


	2. Chapter 2

Thorin woke early, not used to the early morning light streaming in through the tall windows of the room. It took him a few seconds to place himself in Greenwood, in Thranduil’s bed and a few seconds more to realise the weight on his arm was that of the Elvenking himself.

 

He gave a broad smile, lifting one hand to weave his fingers through the silver hair that hung like a veil over his face and trailed down his shoulder, winding his hand up to touch at the tip of his ear, where it creased into a point.

 

Thranduil should have twitched as he always did at the sensation but he didn’t react. The only movement Thorin could feel from him was the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed slowly. With a furrowing of his brow, he brushed the hair from the Elf’s face, jerking in surprise and grimacing at the sight that met him beneath.

 

Had he not seen his torn cheek and the burned flesh of his face and that one, white, lidless eye before, he might have concluded that Thranduil was dead.

 

But he was only sleeping.

 

Thranduil didn’t stir as Thorin let his hair fall back over his face, he remained still and his breathing remained soft and even. Neither did he show any signs of waking as the Dwarf King slowly pulled his arm out from beneath him, and moved from under the sheets, slipping down from the tall bed, down to the floor.

 

He took himself to one of the impressive windows, with a thick border of coloured glass in dark green and pale yellow diamonds and squares that reflected around the room. Thorin made a note to perhaps look into some way that it could be replicated in the windows of the rooms in Erebor that were saved for Thranduil’s visits. While the hues made the glass shapes difficult to see through, even Thorin had to admit that it made for a beautiful effect as it caught the light.

 

The Dwarf could already see Elves outside of the palace, going about their daily tasks, even though he knew by the low sun that it must still be very early. But then again, Elves did not need to sleep in the night times.

 

It was as he stood up on tiptoe to get a better look over the coloured border to the clear glass above it, that he felt the cold of the pane against his chest and shoulder and flinched away at the sensitivity, only now truly realising his bareness in the unfamiliar surroundings. Though he knew them to be alone in the grand chamber, he still crept back to the bedside.

For a time he considered dressing again and eyed the small pile of clothes that had been unceremoniously dumped onto the floor. Thorin grinned at the memory of fumbling with the buttons that bound the sides of his tunic together. Desperately trying to remove garments as Thranduil’s hands had slipped between his legs and began to teasingly stroke his length as he groaned against the Elvenking’s flank, face pressed close against his ribs as sensation overtook his thought process and threatened to drive him over the edge…

 

The thoughts dissuaded Thorin from dressing again and he wet his lips, now dry from memory alone. He cast his eyes instead to the Elven robe, draped over the bedstead and another smile came across Thorin’s cheeks as he quickly made up his mind that the gown would almost certainly do for modesty as he waited for Thranduil to wake.

 

With a small tug he removed it from one of the tall pillars of the headboard and draped it around his shoulders, tying it up at his chest and again at his waist with the thin sashes in the same material as the garment. Having suitably admired how he looked in the long, oversized silvery gown in one of the tall mirrors of the room, he took himself back to the bedside.

 

Without his boots, Thorin was much slower at walking, and adopted a limp, on account of the five missing toes of his left foot leaving him unsteady and off balance. This instability was made even more pervasive by his need to watch where he trod, lest he trip on the trailing fabric of the gown.

 

His left shoes were all fitted in the front with pieces of wood or metal, perfectly weighted to counteract the wobble that his last battle had left him with.

 

He stumbled only once as he crossed the wide room, thankfully close to the bed. Thorin grabbed the edge of the sheets for stability and remained as upright as he could, braced against the wood of the bedframe.

 

Thranduil still didn’t stir and Thorin felt slight relief that he remained asleep.

 

He wondered, as he climbed back up onto the bed, pulling the rest of his robe with him, whether the Elvenking had slept again since he’d last seen him.  It seemed unlikely given his current state of deep slumber, despite Thranduil having taken to his bed several weeks earlier.

 

The guilt set in again tenfold, at that thought and Thorin winced inwardly at the idea that Thranduil had weakened in his absence but could find no true rest. That he’d lain bare in the sheets, for the months with only the dwindling hope that Thorin would return to him as he had continued to promise. Constantly/panicked that his worst fears would come to fruition and that Thorin had abandoned him for good and each passing promise served only as continual punishment.

 

Thorin closed his eyes and furrowed his brow as he turned away from his sleeping lover. It was not an incident to be repeated, however weak Thorin was to his own fears.

 

He settled himself on the bed, above the covers this time, remembering Thranduil’s previous insistence that he was not to be touched when he slept. He still felt bare, despite the gown cloaked around him, but he was content to lay beside him like this, simply watching the Elvenking while he slept silently.

 

Guilt swept over him for the second time that morning as he remembered what his lover had told him of sitting at the border waiting for him for weeks on end. How he wanted that time back, to meet him there at the edge of the forest, rather than being escorted wordlessly to the palace by his guards.

 

He wanted all the months back again, to spend with his love. It would have made for an awfully long trip away from Erebor but if he were able to spend every moment of that time with Thranduil then it was a visit he ought to be pleased to make.

 

Time, then, for all of the things he thought of now while the Elf slept. A week at least dedicated for each carnal act Thorin could think of, sans those that he suspected that Thranduil would not be so willing to indulge him in. And even then that would still leave them with months for more innocent pleasures.

 

At a minimum, a fortnight to wander the forests with him and see the fondness he had for his surroundings and the vast wisdom he had for every animal and plant he came across. Whole evenings that could be spent just reading together or listening to the instruments that each other played.

 

Thorin would make sure that his time on this trip was well spent.

 

Ten minutes passed before Thorin began to be less content with simply watching thinking to himself and started to fidget on the bed. He reached out and lifted Thranduil hair away from his face again and looked over the deep scars underneath, still trying to decipher what exactly he thought of them.

 

Maybe Thranduil had been correct in thinking that Thorin wouldn’t feel the same way about him, were he not able to cover his scars. In any case, it was likely he’d be much gentler with the Elvenking. None of the tight embraces or twisting of limbs around one another in order to gain as much tactile contact as possible with the vast difference in height.

Perhaps they wouldn’t be intimate for fear of hurting Thranduil or reopening a wound.

 

But then again, Thorin reminded himself, Thranduil was not the only one of them adorned with souvenirs of battle. His disfigured foot aside, the years in war and exile had left his torso awash with thin white lines and raised pink scars, though admittedly these were lost under the dark tangles of hair covering most of his body. Some were visible of course, the healed-over stab wound to the right of his chest that almost proved to be his undoing was a prime example, or the long scar along his cheek, gifted to him by and Orcish blade in the Battle of Azanulbizar.

 

Admittedly though there was a difference between the scars on the body of a Dwarf and that of an Elf. There was that level of ethereal perfection that Elves held themselves too, while Dwarves were content to work their bodies to pieces in the name of mining, smithing and fighting. Perhaps it was their mortality, as opposed to the eternalness of Elves. Dwarves knew that in time their bodies would die and it would only be the soul that went to Mahal, or so it was said. Where was the sense in protecting a vessel that in time would be dust in the rocks or ash on some great pyre?

 

Thorin shifted his weight on the bed beneath him and let Thranduil’s hair spill back down over his face and his last passing thought as his burned skin was covered again by the silvery threads was of a time of intimacy, before when the Elvenking ducked his head down and pressed his lips to the head of Thorin’s member, barely making contact to begin with, before a new confidence and sense of deviant curiosity seemed to bloom in his face and he took the Dwarf’s cock in his mouth. He’d settled hands on Thorin’s waist, and hollowed his cheeks, bobbing his head, working his mouth up and down the shaft, eyes flicking up occasionally to find Thorin staring down at him still.

 

It would be unlikely to have happened if Thranduil were unable to mask his scars. There would be too much risk of injury and Thorin couldn’t see himself, being all too keen on the idea if there were a chance of his member pressing against those remaining, thin sinews of muscle that held his jaw to his cheek.

 

But the thought was distasteful and demeaning in many ways, to his lover and Thorin dismissed it with a firm shake of his head, and let his eye move back down the shape of Thranduil’s body beneath the thin silk sheets, until they reached the Elf’s bare ankle and foot, outside of the covers.

 

As he looked back on the memory in the weeks that followed, Thorin realised that Thranduil’s foot had been exposed by Thorin stumbling into the bed and gripping the sheet for support. How odd it seemed that such a minor event would have lead him to his discovery.

 

Another scar, which by now did not shock Thorin. But the pattern did stir his interest. The edge of something larger, from what he could tell. Pink marks bordered with white, barely visible from where they continued on underneath the sheet, but seemingly deliberately placed with straight edges. Some torturous burning perhaps, Thorin imagined, heart clenching almost instantly in anger and grief that someone could ever have tortured his One, in such a way.

 

He slowly sat up, making sure not to shift his weight on the bed, so as to wake Thranduil and crawled down to the other end of the bed and lifted the sheet a little further, swallowing thickly at the sight that greeted him beneath it.

 

Four runes, burned into the skin to spell out one word, which read:

 

And beneath that, another scar, a Dwarven crest seared into his ankle.

 

Thorin’s hand moved to his mouth once he had properly registered the sight before him and he couldn’t supress a choked sob from leaving his lips. His own people had branded the Elf.

 

Thranduil’s leg shifted but Thorin barely noticed, despite keeping his eyes locked onto the lettering

 

“What does it say?”

 

The words were quiet and weak but the voice made Thorin jerk back, almost entirely off the bed before he caught himself, turning, wide-eyed to Thranduil who was sat up under the covers, the scars covering themselves with a heavy tremble once again. “I know you saw it, what does it say?” He repeated again, louder this time but Thorin could give him no answer, instead giving another thick swallow and looked back to his ankle, now blank, unmarked.

 

“It was too faint, I couldn’t read it properly.” He whispered eventually, stalling for time as he searched his brain for a more acceptable answer but Thranduil saw through it immediately.

 

“You always lie to me.” The Elvenking whispered bitterly, pulling his foot away and turning away from Thorin. “I deserve to know what it says.”

 

Thorin blinked and shook his head. “I-I couldn’t say…” He mumbled, but Thranduil only cried out weakly in reply.

 

“I deserve to know!” He growled. “It’s _my_ skin!”

 

Thorin shifted close behind him and sighed. “You’ve never told me about this.” He mumbled, still avoiding the question.

 

This was only met by a deep, embittered chuckle, and Thranduil did not move from where he had wrapped himself in the sheets. “I didn’t intend to ever tell you. I hoped you would go to your grave never having to see it.” He paused to take a lungful of air. “But since you’ve seen…and you know what it says…would it not be kind to tell me?”

 

“Thranduil you know I’m not allo-”

 

“Don’t speak to me of tradition and secrets!” Thranduil cried. “I’m not asking for very much Thorin. I don’t want a whole lesson in your language. All I want is to known what they burned _letter by letter_ into my leg!”

 

Thorin winced at his pleas but gave a single shake of his head. “When was this done?”

 

“Tell me what it says.” The words were laced with threat, and he sat up quickly to look at the Dwarf king with watery eyes. “And I might explain.”

 

“Why have you hidden it from me?” He asked, ignoring the proposal offered to him. “Why would you think it was not important to show?”

 

Thranduil turned back into his pillow and closed his eyes, his lips tight until he finally spoke again. “You’re not going to tell me.”

 

“Thranduil, my love, I cannot…”

 

“Well you can!” He spat. “You simply choose not to!”

 

Thorin gave a deep sigh. “I cannot.” He repeated.

 

“Then you can just leave now.” Thranduil murmured easily, eyes still closed. “And I will find a Dwarf who will tell me what it says.” He gave a broad smile, lids opening finally, to make sure he looked Thorin in the eye. “And I will do for them, ten times what I have done for you.”  But as liberating as the cruelty felt in his mind, as soon as he heard the words leave his lips, Thranduil felt as though he’d crushed a part of himself and hated his thoughts for having designed such an insult and his tongue for having spoken it. Eyes wide in disbelief at his own malice, he let out a heavy sob, burying his head in the pillow to block out Thorin’s reaction.

 

The Dwarf said nothing for a time and simply stared at the Elvenking laying prostrate in his bed, face pressed into the cushions, whole body trembling in rage and fear. He exhaled slowly at the sight and grit his back teeth, before he said anything in reply. He knew that the threat was an idle one and said only in anger and frustration, but that didn’t stop the words from hurting him to his very core.

 

If he’d ever suspected Thranduil of not loving him, perhaps the insult would have caused him to leave. But he knew with all his heart that the Elvenking had never wanted him as only a translator, to finally rid himself of the mystery surrounding the word branded onto him, which had clearly plagued him for far too long, if his reaction was any evidence. If that had been the case, he would have shown the writing earlier. Wouldn’t have hidden it away with the rest of the scars.

 

Thorin waited until he was sure that he felt no anger in response to the outburst and lay back down beside him, under the covers and pressed himself close to Thranduil, who had become near-inconsolable, while Thorin was silent. The Elf flinched at first, but as he came to realise the touch was not a violent one, he held him tightly, fingers gripping into the silk of his own gown which Thorin still wore and he shuddered at the Dwarf’s hot breath in the crook of his neck.

 

“I-I never meant it…” He managed finally but Thorin only hushed him softly, rubbing between his shoulder blades with one large, calloused hand.

 

“I know.”

 

“Please don’t leave me again…”

 

He shook his head and pressed the lightest kiss he could manage to the edge of his jaw. “I couldn’t.”

 

“I really didn’t mean it.” He whispered again and received the same response.

 

“I know.”

 

“I have just lived with it for so long…”

 

Thorin shook his head again, hushing him once more. “You need not explain yourself to me.” He murmured. “I have no right to demand details from you.”

 

“Give me time,” Thranduil told him weakly, kissing what he could reach of Thorin’s forehead. “And I will tell you how I came by it.”

 

Thorin nodded slowly, laying still and allowing Thranduil’s hands to roam further across his back, beneath the tangles of hair. Perhaps if life in Erebor had not placated his quick temper, this gentle moment may have been lost to some biting insult thrown back at the Elvenking in response to his cruelty. How he ought to have been branded across the forehead for all to see his shame. About how he had deserved any pain that the Dwarves had given to him. How breaking the traditions of Durin’s folk were not even worth a hundred times the affection that Thranduil might bestow in return.

 

But that wasn’t true at all.

 

It hadn't been true since that very moment in a deep hall of Erebor where Thorin had taken to concealing himself in the evenings, when he tired of long days of leadership and strategizing. Where Thranduil had eventually found him. Where Thorin had finally recognised that his concern was more than just that of an allied leader. Where they’d sat, side by side, against a great stone pillar and let their eyes wander up and down each other, sizing up their next moves.

 

Where hand had found hand, and mouth had found mouth and skin had found skin.

 

From that very moment, he was weak to the Elvenking. Weaker than he had ever known himself to be before.

 

Too weak to allow it all to crumble away over one word.

 

Thorin felt Thranduil’s ragged breaths slow as they lay together and he took one of the Elf’s hands from his back and held it between them, squeezing his hand tightly, though not tight enough to hurt. “You understand the sentiment of the brand, don’t you?” He whispered and felt Thranduil nod against him. “Then you know what it means.”

 

Thranduil broke away, to look down, meeting Thorin’s eye. “Truly?” He asked softly, eyes pink and cheeks wet with tears. “That’s all it means?”

 

“Truly.”

 

He gave a soft huff of laughter, wiping a hand down his face, in some mixture of relief and realisation at his own foolishness. Of course that would be all it said. That he was a prisoner of that clan.

 

Marking him, eternally, such that even if his memories of his captivity faded, there would always be the brand to remind him.

 

And it was then that Thorin knew beyond all shadows of doubt, why Thranduil was sensitive of his scars.

 

Long after battles were won or lost and enemies were defeated, they would stay with him. Burns from dragon fire and brands alike, the marks would forever remind him of ills and pain committed against him. Foes he may defeat or merely outlive would stay etched into his skin. Even after every Dwarf and Orc and Dragon were dead, even after all of middle earth may wither away and die, even after he had left for the Grey Havens, he would only ever show the signs of those who had hurt him.

 

His enemies took their immortality through his Elven body.

 

Thorin’s eyes went glassy with tears at the thought and he hid his face in the draping sleeve of the gown, nuzzling tightly into Thranduil’s chest.

 

Perhaps he needn’t know of the circumstances surrounding his imprisonment by Dwarves. Or the reason behind any other scar.

 

“Please know I would not find another.” Thranduil murmured, eventually.

 

“Please know that I would not give you reason to.”

 

The Elvenking gave a long sign and edged down from his pillow until he could move Thorin’s face from the sleeve of his own gown, which was beginning to peak his curiosity as to why the Dwarf was wearing it at all. But the questions could wait, Thranduil decided and he nudged his nose against Thorin’s and gave a weak smile, feeling the brush of his beard close against his cheek. “I’ve always known that."

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked the story or have any complaints, please feel free to leave a comment below or send me a message on my tumblr because I like hearing from you:
> 
> half-of-a-halfling.tumblr.com


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